The man made no reply. His empty hands swung at his sides lifelessly. Kawasaki turned the snout of his machine gun at the man's thin chest. He could almost count the ribs outlined by the snug T-shirt fabric.
The man didn't flinch. He advanced purposefully, his dusty feet utterly soundless as they trod the asphalt. On a hunch, Kawasaki reached into the turret hatch for the turret control lever. He goosed it until the smoothbore cannon lined up with the man's chest. Annoyed that the powerful cannon maw did not hinder the dead-eyed man's advance, Kawasaki dropped the machine-gun muzzle and sent a short burst into the man's path.
A section of pavement erupted. The man walked over it unconcernedly.
"I do not have to take you arive," Kawasaki called. It was a lie, but he didn't know what else to say. If he was forced to kill, how could he explain bringing back an unarmed corpse?
Kawasaki put a second burst over the oncoming man's head. It proved unpersuasive. He came on as if utterly unafraid of death.
Or, Minobe Kawasaki suddenly thought, as if he were already dead.
"Driver!" he ordered in Japanese. "Approach that man. Slowly!"
The tank started forward. The smoothbore muzzle was bearing down on the man's chest like the finger of doom. If both man and tank continued along their stubborn paths, the maw would ram the man, knocking him down. That was Kawasaki's intention.
The distance between them shrank. It was several yards. Then three. Then six feet. Then two. One.
Just when a collision seemed unavoidable, the man's right hand came up as if jerked by a string. That was as much as Minobe Kawasaki saw, for he was suddenly knocked off his perch. He struck the hull of the tank and slipped over the side. He missed being drawn into the big rollers only by inches. Kawasaki realized his narrow escape only later. The sound, a horrendously flat crack of a noise, beat upon his eardrums. He clapped his hands to his ears, thinking it had been an explosion.
Minobe Kawasaki felt it was safe to open his eyes only after the ringing in his ears ceased. He looked up fearfully. He was relieved to find he still had all his body parts. Then he saw the tank. It had come to a dead stop. The driver's helmeted head was turned around in his seat to look back at the turret.
Minobe Kawasaki's eyes went wide with incredulity. The turret of the tank was no longer sitting on its ring mount. The top flange of the great steel mount had that bright graininess of sheared metal.
The turret lay on the pavement a good dozen feet behind the tank. And beyond it, walking with a mechanical assurance, was the man with coals for eyes and thunder for a voice.
Minobe Kawasaki ran to the decapitated tank. He grabbed the radio from his driver and began speaking in a high, excited voice.
Jiro Isuzu almost dismissed the first report as the excesses of a victory-drunk salaryman-turned-soldier. But then more reports started coming in, all loud, all excited, all tinged with the unmistakable oil of fear.
The New Japanese Imperial Forces had lost five tanks in short-lived encounters with a single opponent every vanquished unit insisted upon referring to as "it."
"Be more specific," Isuzu barked at the first unit to call the opponent that. "Is 'it' a war machine?"
"It," the arid reply insisted, "is a man with death in his eyes and steel in his arms."
And that was actually the most coherent description of the several that followed. Isuzu ordered more tanks into the area of the last sighting of "it." He waited. Some of the tank commanders reported back, some could not be raised. The surviving tank commanders told stories of defeat and shame. One, after completing his report, dropped the microphone and gave out a tremendous grunt that was mixed with a ripping-of-cloth sound.
Isuzu understood that the man had sat down at the scene of his defeat and opened his stomach with his own bayonet. Seppuku.
Every report agreed on one impossibility. The opponent was a lone unarmed man. And he was walking remorselessly, unstoppably in the direction of city hall, as if guided by radar.
Jiro Isuzu ordered his forces to pull back to city hall. Then he rushed to the office where Nemuro Nishitsu lay on the couch. His eyes were closed.
Gently Jiro Isuzu touched his leader's shoulder. Black slit eyes opened feebly. Nemuro Nishitsu opened his mouth to speak, but only a dry rattle came out. Jiro touched his forehead. Hot. A fever.
Jiro Isuzu put an ear close to Nishitsu's mouth. He felt the warm breath and, mixed with that hot moistness, came faint words.
"Do your duty," Nemuro Nishitsu said. "Banzai!" Then Nemuro Nishitsu turned his face to the back of the couch and closed his eyes. He slept.
Jiro Isuzu got to his feet. It would be up to him now. He went out to issue more orders. He wondered when the bombers would come.
The Master of Sinanju stared at the bleak horizon like an idol draped in scarlet cloth. The wind whipped his kimono skirts around his spindly legs.
Bill Roam came up behind him, clearing his throat noisily. Chiun did not acknowledge his approach. "The women have tucked in the children," he said, taking his place at Chiun's side. He looked in the direction Chiun's wise old eyes stared. There were flashes of light beyond the low horizon.
"There is fighting in the city," Chiun intoned.
"That sure ain't heat lightning," Roam agreed. "You know, I feel right sorrowful about Bronzini. "
"Every man pays a price for his actions in time," Chiun said dismissively. "Some pay for their failures, some for their successes. Bronzini's successes brought this down on all of us. I have lost my son because of him, and with him goes the hope of my village."
"I know what you mean. I'm the last Sunny Joe." Chiun turned, sympathy smoothing his wrinkled features.
"Your wife bore you no sons?"
"She did. He died. A long time ago. I never remarried. "
Chiun nodded. "I know that pain," he said simply. He turned back to the display of red and blue lights that lit the sky. They were too far away from the city for the sounds of conflict to reach their ears.
"When I'm gone," Sunny Joe Roam said, "there'll be no one to protect the tribe. What's left of it."
Chiun nodded. "And when I am gone, there will be no one to feed the children of my village. It is that fear that has made every Master of Sinanju reach beyond his limitations, for it is one thing to give up one's own life, another to surrender those who depend upon you."
"Amen, brother."
"Know, Sunny Joe Roam, that I do not hold you responsible for anything that has transpired in the last two days. But I intend to make those who brought this pain down upon me to suffer for their evil. I cannot, as long as they hold innocent young lives hostage. For all children, not just those of our blood, are precious to Sinanju. Is this so among the Sun On Jos?"
"I think that's one of the universal ones," Roam said.
"Not to the Japanese. When they took my country, no one, from those who sat on the Dragon Throne to even the babes suckling at their mothers' breasts, were safe from the bayonets."
"This can't go on much longer. The Marines ought to be landing soon. Washington isn't going to ignore this."
"And then how many lives will be lost?" Chiun said, looking back toward the flashes of light that shook the sky. After a pause, his dry lips parted.
"Your son. What was his-"
"Sunny Joe! Sunny Joe! Come quick!"
Roam spun around. Sheryl Rose was in the doorway of an adobe house, her face a mask of horror. "What is it?" Roam called.
"They're going to hang Bronzini! It just came over the TV."
"Come on," Roam said harshly.
Chiun followed him into the house. Sheryl led them to the TV, talking nervously. "I don't know why I turned on the TV. Reflex, I guess. But Channel Eleven is on the air again. Look."